Avi ben Shoham sighed, leaning back in his chair. The phone on the desk in front of him was on speaker and he was sure his sigh had been heard. Frankly, he didn’t care. He wasn’t dealing from a position of strength anyway.
“My men tell me they made positive identification of an American agent named Harold Nichols near the al- Aqsa mosque a few minutes ago. What can you tell me of US involvement in this incident?”
“I have made myself clear, general,” Husayni replied firmly. “If you want my cooperation, you will have to content yourself with the information I am willing to give you.”
Shoham bristled at the cleric’s attitude. “What if I tell you we can do without your cooperation?”
“If I were you, I would think long and carefully before I made that assertion. Consider the facts, general. There were two bomb blasts in the Muslim Quarter this morning. The street will believe you are hiding something, whether any evidence points to it or not. A worshiper was slain in front of the third-holiest mosque in Islam, by a sniper with military training. Draw your own conclusions, but do not forget which ones the Arab world will draw: an arrow pointing straight at the heart of Israel. If it were not for me.”
He was right, and Shoham knew it. It didn’t mean he had to like it. “You pride yourself on your abilities.”
“Pride is a grievous sin, general, and Allah forgive me if I am guilty of it. There was a boxer in America-a man who went by the name of Cassius Clay before he found the peace of Islam. He said that it was not bragging if you could do it. And you know I can.”
“Monarchs and dictators are little but titular rulers in the house of Islam,” Husayni continued. “They tremble at the noise of the mob in the street. And the people of the street believe that I speak unto them the truth of Allah,
There was a long silence before the Mossad chief replied. “Very well, we’ll do this your way.”
“
Blessing and peace be upon you…
Chapter Twenty
“And it is with sorrow, my people, that I must give you the truth. The attacks launched yesterday, profaning the holy ground of Al-Quds and the Masjid al-Aqsa with violence, were
A murmur ran through the assembled crowd and the cleric raised his hand for silence. “You find this difficult to believe? It should not be. How many times through history have Shia killed Sunni and Sunni killed Shia? And this time, even the mutual reverence for the site from which the Prophet, peace be upon him, rose unto paradise was not enough to restrain the violence.”
More voices, angry shouts as the crowd stirred at his words. “Retaliation is not the answer, my brethren. It never has been. Give not your ear to those who would twist the words of the Prophet into a call to battle. It is the jihad-within which will sustain our cause, a submission of ourselves to the will of Allah. For far too long has the house of Islam been divided…”
Shirazi could listen to no more and he threw his cup of tea across the room, shattering the plasma screen. The effort, the money, the planning, all of it gone to waste. His nephew dead, the worthless scoundrel.
Retreating to his desk, the Iranian president sank into his chair, burying his head in his hands. All of it lost. Had he misread his destiny? Once, everything had seemed so clear.
When he raised his face once more, determination shone through the grief. Nothing had been misread. It had only been thwarted by the efforts of false believers. And he knew what he must do.
Composing himself, he reached for the phone on his desk…
“Good morning, Carol,” Kranemeyer greeted, rounding the corner of her cubicle, a manila folder in his hand. It was her first morning back on the job-the op-center staff had been given a few days off in the aftermath of their marathon shift leading up to the 4th of October.
“Any word from Nichols?” he asked, handing her the folder.
She nodded. “The field team is to touch down at Dover Air Force Base within the hour. Danny’s meeting them with transportation.”
“I want you and Ron to work this up,” he continued, gesturing to the folder. “It’s important to get it done before we have to notify the family.”
Carol opened the folder to see Davood’s dossier inside. Attached to the top of the cover sheet, above his photo, was a sticky note bearing the scrawled words “Directive No. 19.”
Her throat felt suddenly dry. She barely heard Kranemeyer ask, “What can you tell me about his death?”
“Two days ago,” she began, taking a deep breath as the story unfolded in her mind, “Davood Sarami was skiing with Swiss counterterrorism forces in Bern as part of a routine NATO paramilitary exercise when he fell to his death in an Alpine crevasse. His body was recovered by the Swiss, but had been rendered nearly unrecognizable by the fall…”
“Run it,” the DCS interrupted quietly. Carol nodded, turning back to her computer. Truth, that ever-elusive quality of the Clandestine Service.
Even in death, it was nowhere to be found…
The men of the strike teams had a place to call their own in the sprawling complex that was CIA-Langley, an old storage room that had been converted into a combination rec room/lounge. Tex and Thomas were already there when Harry walked in, his debriefing with Kranemeyer over.
A game of football was on the television and Harry noted it absently as he made his way to the refrigerator, opening the door to look inside. “Who’s winning?”
“College ball. Penn State’s getting their butt handed to them by Notre Dame.”
“Any idea where my Pepsi went?”
“I think Nakamura stuffed it behind his case of Jack Daniel’s,” Thomas replied, making an oblique reference to the Bravo Team leader. “Toss one of those over here, will you?”
There was something different in the tone and Harry straightened up, looking over at his friend. “Getting yourself drunk isn’t going to solve anything, Thomas.”
Their eyes met and Harry could see his own hurt reflected there. Hamid had been more than a friend-he’d been a brother. “That’s what they tell me,” Thomas replied, no humor in his voice as he rose from the couch. “The operative point being that I won’t
At that moment, a wave of sound erupted from the TV screen, men collapsing in a heap near the goal line. “Touchdown! And Penn State has pulled it off once again, with a come-from-behind victory!”
Without a word between them, Harry and Thomas looked toward the door of the refrigerator, the sheet of paper held there by magnets. Under a rakish heading of “HAMID’S PIGSKIN PICKS” was scrawled a list of dates, games and predictions. Written down at the bottom were the words,
